


Bare My Skin

by non_tiembo_mala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Coda, Comeplay, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s05e07 The Curious Case of Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, M/M, PWP, Rimming, Schmoop, Soulmates, Top Dean, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 02:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5610211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam really thought he was going to lose Dean when he got tricked into playing poker for his brother's life. As luck would have it that's not how it goes down but Sam is rattled and Dean always knows how to make it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bare My Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gluedwithgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gluedwithgold/gifts).



> Prompt from my lovely friend, to whom I've gifted this.
> 
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Patrick's dialogue borrowed respectfully and with love from canon.
> 
> Title from Imagine Dragons' Bleed It Out.

It makes Sam crazy that Dean never takes his own life seriously. This is hardly the first time. Nothing will ever quite compare to when Dean sold his soul and the agonizing 365 day countdown that followed but walking into the dingy back room of the bar now is an echo of it, like Dean is on the edge, and Sam feels like he is the only thing that stands between the push off of it or the pull to safety. If it were Sam on the precipice instead- well, it’s no secret where that would wind up. See _Dean Winchester_ subsection _time in Hell_. Dean is aggressively entitled to his self-sacrifice for his brother but he refuses to allow Sam to be the same. Dean won’t spare himself even a fraction of the same thought or care he gives Sam. It makes Sam _crazy_.

At first, Sam admits he thinks it’s a little funny, too. Dean’s grumpiness suits him in a whole new light with the silver hair and wrinkles. Sam lets Dean’s humour carry the situation to start with but that doesn’t get him very far. By the time they get to the He-Witch’s floor up half a dozen sets of stairs and Dean is trailing behind - struggling to breathe - Sam is not laughing.

Dean is apparently allowed to waste his years and his life on a whim but if Sam even tries to suggest he do the same Dean’s eyebrows knit together and that warning tone comes out - the one that sounds more and more like John’s, especially at this particular moment with the age that textures and changes Dean’s usually smooth, gravelly voice - to cut Sam off without entertaining the idea for even a second, without giving a moment’s consideration to the fact that Sam feels every bit the same way about Dean, so why is he always allowed to make the sacrifice when Sam isn’t.

Sam is already sweating when he sits down across from Patrick, the sheen of it thin and shiny on the skin of his forehead and the hollow of his throat. The smug bastard looks at him and Sam knows that Patrick knew Sam would come. Sam’s used to it by now; he knows people can read they way he and his brother love each other no matter what they do to downplay it, act “normal”, behave “just like brothers”. Every action, every movement, every brush of their shoulders because they can’t bring themselves to put enough space between them not to touch - it all tells even the most unobservant eyes everything they could need to know. So of course Mr. Old Fashioned Intuition can read Sam like a book. He lays it on thick and holds Sam’s gaze with a particularly knowing look in his eyes when he says he can tell Sam’s heart is in the right place. _Because he adores Dean, will do absolutely anything for him._ The way Patrick says ‘big brother’ when he asks if Dean knows he’s here because he already knows that ‘big brother’ means more to Sam than anything else, more to Sam than the same words could ever mean to anyone else. _Because big brother is best friend, lover, other half, home; it is soulmate, heart, breath, the Earth and moon and everything in between and it’s clear as day in Sam’s eyes, the way he looks when Dean is mentioned, when the words_ big brother _sound across the air to his ears and make him that much more alive._

Patrick knows what to say and how to say it because he plays people. He’s been playing people for 900 years and he’s playing Sam with the only bow that could ever make him sing.

“You’re not the little brother anymore. Then again, maybe you _are_.” When he says it it’s weighted and burdened with knowing. Patrick doesn’t wink because he doesn’t need to. Sam can see and hear how he knows.

Sam is constantly battling Dean to not be treated like the little brother - he’s a grown (overgrown - Dean’s words) ass man and he’ll make his own decisions. Excepting, of course, what Patrick is insinuating to be true (because it is - Sam’s blissful reality) that Sam is _always_ Dean’s little brother; he’s _desperate_ to be his (giant, Sasquatch - Dean’s words) little brother, to always make Dean teach him and show him and take him, make him safe, make him home, make him come, his little brother, his baby brother, his _baby boy_. And _oh_ , does he ever.

Patrick takes the trick toothpick out of the inside of his suit jacket and Sam’s heart feels like the life has been squeezed out of it, his throat is suddenly tight and dry, and his jaw clenches subconsciously. Poker really isn’t his thing and he had banked it all on that spell; he had banked Dean’s life (his - Sam’s - life) on that spell.

“Keep playing.” Patrick grits out after Lia intervenes, saves Sam from the He-Witch’s Force choke that might’ve ended it all, and he levels Sam with a stare that is nothing like the playfully dangerous ones from before. Patrick is pissed now and God only knows what else. Sam is a little terrified. The only person whose mercy he yearns to be at is Dean’s, and right now, against Patrick, Sam knows he’s lost all control; from here on in, there is no plan. There is only Sam, the magical chips that represent his and Dean’s lives, and Patrick.

“Your brother will be dead soon. And when I say soon…” he continues, taunting, whistling low, his countenance smooth and collected again, comfortable now that he’s found he still has the upper hand. “I mean _minutes_.”

Sam feels his words like an ice cold dagger to the chest, the chill of it sweeping fast through his body like a poison, a near paralysis.

“So, when it’s about your brother, you get so emotional your brain goes right out the window.” Patrick says it like he’s already won, states it like something triumphant. Oddly enough it’s that which gives Sam pause. Once upon a time he would’ve said Patrick was right but Sam has learned something about himself over the years, especially since he and Dean gave into what was between them, what they are. When it’s about Dean, Sam can never be wrong. Dean is the only thing in his life he will always - _always_ \- get right.

Sam almost hates how genuinely sorry Patrick looks when he plays his damned aces, certain he’s beat Sam and Dean is dying somewhere out of reach.

When Sam finally turns over his four fours he’s shaking terribly with an intoxicating mix of panic, adrenaline, and relief. It’s worth the surprised look on Patrick’s face that quickly transforms into one that’s impressed. Patrick even looks like he means it when he says he’s happy to cash in the chips for Dean. Sam is dizzy with it. He wants eyes on his brother and he wants them _now_. And then hands, and lips, and all the skin he get to - every last irritating and perfect inch of him.

Sometimes Sam has a suspicion that Bobby knows. The old man is nowhere to be found when Sam throws open the door to their shitty motel room, traces of panic still lacing his veins and making his blood pump hard and fast as he booked it there, needing to see Dean, to see him right again, to breathe in his brother like a man deprived of oxygen, light headed and tingling and reckless.

Dean is grinning at him the way he does and it reaches all the way to his eyes, the tempting crinkles there the most profound creases on his otherwise flawless honey skin, the faint dusting of freckles lifted with the swell of his smiling cheeks. He wags his eyebrows at Sam, too, for good measure, just in case Sam didn’t hear the unspoken question in his brother’s expression that plays and teases - _don’t I look good, Sammy?_ \- even as Sam’s heart still jackhammers in his chest with the residual worry that would only start to subside now that they're together again.

Sam stands panting at the threshold, blinking at his brother and trying to let the sight of him wash all the tension in him away, steady him so he can finally stop shaking. It takes just long enough for Sam’s pulse to settle that Dean’s stopped looking goofy and is coming towards him with a serious, tender look instead. Dean has always been a joker and a jerk but he knows Sam inside out, backwards and blindfolded; he sees that Sam still isn’t laughing, sees what Sam needs, and he moves to provide. Sam's aching heart swells as Dean keeps his eyes on Sam's and he reaches past him to close and lock the door. Sam lets out a still shaky sigh and silently thanks the universe for his brother’s DNA-deep devotion to him. It's something they have in common.

Dean’s hands are soft on his body, tentative only because Sam can feel that they want to be everywhere at once. Dean’s chest presses up against his own, their hips meet, and those big, sure hands are moving, light on Sam’s waist, smoothing up his sides and down his back.

Sam looks down to see how their bodies line up together and his hair escapes from where it’s tucked behind his ears, spilling across his face and like a chestnut veil in front of his eyes. Dean’s hands make their way up again and then they’re cupping Sam’s face with a gentleness that makes Sam’s stomach tighten and his body ripple like a still pond given life by the first raindrops of Dean’s touches. The work-rough pads of his brother’s thumbs make easy circles on the apples of his cheeks and as Dean nuzzles their noses together, looking at their soul where it’s exposed in the living sea of Sam’s hazel eyes, Sam’s trembling hands find their way to Dean’s wrists. His thumbs echo the motions of Dean’s as he caresses the thin, more delicate skin there.

“Sammy…” Dean’s voice is a gentle smile, knowing but not chiding, never mocking, not now, not like this, not when it matters. Dean can’t say a thing about it; he knows Sam almost lost him. Hell, he still feels the rattle in his own chest where something got knocked loose as he dropped to the floor in Patrick’s apartment, when the crushing, suffocating pain behind his ribs was constricting and shooting down his arm and making it impossible to breathe and telling him _this is it_. He thought maybe Sam hadn’t known how close they came, thought he’d try for funny first, praying Sam had been spared the taste of the anguish Dean knew at the almost-loss. His voice tells Sam that Dean knows, and it's the promise that Dean will give and take everything they both need.

Dean’s lips brush his, the chapped skin catching in a teasing drag before he lets his tongue snake out and trace the pretty pink of them, making them shine as they share their breaths and Sam feels his body respond to his brother like a hum that starts deep in his bones and slowly takes him over.

Sam presses their open mouths together and takes Dean’s tongue in his own, starting to suck at it as those strong hands on his face slide further up his jaw and into his hair to take control, to better angle the kiss and take it deeper. As he sucks on Dean’s tongue he doesn’t even try to quiet the whimpers he makes. The act of it makes something desperate and sharp spike through him; it feels like nursing, nourishing and vital. Dean moans as the suck of Sam’s mouth pulls at him and Sam’s hands fly frantically down his body and grip tightly at his hip bones, digging in like he needs to feel the resistance of it, the sturdiness of Dean’s skeleton where it’s softly covered with his skin and is an anchor for them both.

Dean tugs a little at Sam’s hair where his fingers are woven into it and the whimpers are more like keens and Sam has to let go of Dean’s tongue to pant around it instead, gasping for air that he fucking resents needing in these moments. Dean kisses and licks at his parted lips and, pushing his hips into Sam’s hands, he lets him feel the hardened length of him between them, threatening to bruise Sam’s thigh when Sam tugs them close, closer, the closest together that he can get them.

They stumble a little with the force of Sam’s need and the equal force of Dean’s giving. Dean smiles against Sam’s lips and lets the tip of his nose bury into Sam’s cheek.

“Come on, baby boy,” he breathes as he starts to walk them backward towards the closest bed, Sam’s mouth and body chasing after him, eager not to be apart. “Let me make it better. Let me show you I’m still here, I still got you.”

Sam wants to answer him but the words stick in his throat, tripping over each other and losing to the choked moan that slips out instead and he nods, too, their foreheads bumping together and the rebel strands of Sam’s hair getting trapped between them. Dean lets out a breathy chuckle at his brother’s wordless enthusiasm and kisses him again, insistent, drinking in the taste of Sam that reminds him what life is as he starts to shed his layers, dropping them efficiently in a heap around them that doubles as Sam does the same. Their lips and tongues are still working hard to wreck perfect havoc on each other as they toe out of their shoes and socks, their mouths puffy and dark, soft and dewy with their spit.

Finally naked they come back together, the skin-on-skin more heady than the best top shelf whiskey, their dicks both steely and flushed with blood, the tips both glistening wet and eager as they touch sweetly before being caught between the trap of their stomachs. Sam groans and Dean echoes the sound, his hands done with stripping and now burying back into the silky nest of Sam’s hair. Sam’s hands are back on Dean’s hips, his thumbs pressing hard enough to bruise, to leave his fingerprints on Dean's skin, grinding them together while Dean carves out his mouth with his teeth and his tongue.

Sam whines and arches into his brother when Dean slips a hand around to palm his ass and trace down the seam of it with the first seeking digit. It makes Dean bite down on own lip and chase the sound with one of his own.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam pleads into his mouth, his hands still pulling at him though he’s no longer grinding them together, his hips instead pushing out and back onto Dean’s finger where it’s teasingly petting at his hole, making it flex, making it beg.

“Yeah, baby, that’s it. Okay, okay, on the bed.” Dean kisses the corner of his mouth and quickly - rising up on his toes - at Sam’s temple before Sam lets him go to scramble up the bed, only able to put the distance between them because of the promise of what’s to come. Sam’s head is on a pillow and he’s watching Dean with lust-blown-black eyes by the time his brother drops his knees to the bed, grinning devilishly and tugging idly at his own dick with slow pulls of his hand.

“On your stomach,” Dean purrs, low and rough with just a hint of the tone of command that makes Sam shiver despite the flush that pinks his cheeks, neck and chest, hurrying to do as Dean says and get into position. Dean stalks over him and Sam arches back, presenting his ass when he feels the wet tip of Dean’s heavy cock brush the small of his back and the swell of his cheeks, the precome refreshing and teasing on his burning hot skin. Sam presses back into Dean’s lap, burrowing his face into the pillow as his hands fist the sheets.

Dean is licking the shell of his ear as he angles his body to let his dick align with the crack of Sam’s ass. He’s grazing the skin with his teeth as Sam ruts back against him, the plush cushion of his brother’s delicious butt pulling at his velvet skin. Sam turns his face on the pillow so one side is exposed to Dean and his brother takes the invitation to heart, kissing at all the skin he can reach with his spit-slick mouth before he starts to trail kisses and nips down the length of Sam’s body. He moves quickly - a man on a mission - and lingers for only a moment tracing circles with his tongue in the flats of the dimples of Sam’s back, making Sam moan and squirm underneath him. Sam knows what’s coming next before Dean’s hands even find their way to his cheeks and the way Sam pushes his ass up with the spread of knees under him is so enticing, so wanton, that Dean’s dick is twitching between his thighs, dripping, and Dean is about to bite clean through his bottom lip when he palms Sam’s ass open to expose his hole.

“A-ah, _ah_ , yes, _please_ , Dean, _please_ ,” Sam is trying to look back at him from over his shoulder, begging him shamelessly with his near-incoherent words and the short, quick in-and-outs of his breaths. It makes Dean almost delirious with want seeing the way his usually articulate and collected baby brother comes apart underneath him.

Dean descends ruthlessly on Sam’s hole, his tongue tickling at the entrance with little wiggles and flicks, coaxing it open. When Sam relaxes just enough to let him in he hums appreciatively and buries his face in the crack of Sam’s ass, his tongue plunging as deep as he can get it, his nose full of the perfect, provocative scent that's so secret and belongs just to him. Sam shakes around him, the muscles caressing his tongue while it laps at their smooth walls.

When he finally comes up for air Dean is gasping and Sam chases his mouth, his hips pushing back, and Dean is still gasping when he starts in on broad stripes up and down the centre of Sam’s cheeks, still parted by firm hands on either side. Dean traces and licks, kisses, nips and sucks at all of his brother's most clandestine parts until they're shiny from his spit and flushed from the work of his mouth, his hole fluttering whenever Dean takes back his tongue to look at it, the dark opening winking at him and needing to be filled. Sam’s keens and moans make sure Dean is always keeping up, as close to the edge as his brother while he works him, high off the power of it, of being the only person to make Sam break like this, to make him feel this good.

Dean groans at the sight of his handy work and spits onto Sam’s hole like it’s a bullseye. Sam barely has time to shudder from it when Dean starts rubbing it in and breaches him with three fingers, ready to stretch him out just that little bit more after the thorough tongue-fucking that already loosened him up. He twists his wrist and curls his fingers just the right way, knowing Sam’s insides as well as the pathways to a beloved childhood hiding place, making Sam cry out when he finds his way there as surely as always. Sam bucks back to fuck himself on Dean’s hands, to meet the thrusts of his brother’s wrist, and it’s precious few moments before he can’t take it anymore.

“De- Dean, Dean, _Dean_ , fuck, c’mon, _please_ ,” he begs him, his voice high and raspy and strangled as he tries to scrape together enough brain cells to make the words and Dean is relieved for it, so ready that Sam’s ready because he was ready yesterday - is always ready - and he wastes no time after gently withdrawing his fingers from Sam’s tight body.

“Yeah, Sammy, yeah, I’m coming. _Fuck_ , gonna fill you up.” Dean babbles whispered reassurances as he lines up the head of his cock with the entrance to the heaven that is his brother and he sucks in a breath as he nudges in, letting the ring of muscle close around him.  
“ _Sammy_ ,” he moans his brother’s name, long and low as he slowly slides all the way in, steady and smooth.

“ _Fuck_ yes,” Sam echos, white-knuckling the sheets and letting his body relax around his brother’s dick as it splits him open, breaks him in two.

When Dean is fully buried in his brother’s ass, the flat of his stomach pressed against the sweet curve of it, he drapes himself over the beautiful expanse of his brother’s back so he can kiss at Sam’s temple, nose at the sweaty, hidden valley behind Sam’s ear. He’s panting - they both are - and finally Sam growls below him, arching back against his body.

“Dean, _move_ , fuck me, _fuck_ , please! Feel so good-” Sam’s voice disappears when Dean gives him what he wants, snapping his hips forward hard and fast in a punishing rhythm, pulling back slow and diving in quick.

“Sam- Sammy, yeah, _fuck_ , yeah, perfect. Always perfect for me, made for me baby boy,” Dean murmurs sweet, dirty things in Sam’s ear, somehow quiet and soft, a perfect juxtaposition to expert, harsh drive of his thrusts and the dirty, loud slap of their skin coming together. Sam’s body wants to slide away and up the bed on each thrust but the weight of Dean’s effectively pins him in place and they’re shifting together, the movement creating perfect friction for Sam’s aching cock as it rubs between his stomach and the sheets. Sam’s nearly mindless now, so close, hardly able to catch his breath and no more able to find words, only a breathy, rumbling litany of _ah-ah-ahs_ in time with the fuck of his brother’s hips and the way his brother’s dick brushes against his prostate on each one, bringing him rapidly to the edge.

“That’s it- give it up for me, Sammy. ‘M still here, always- always gonna be here for you, baby boy, _yeah_. Come for me- Gotta feel you- _Ah, Sam-_!” Dean’s words push him over and Sam shudders and shakes, a warm wet mess spreading trapped against his belly, and the rippling clutch of his body when he comes takes Dean with him. His brother empties into him and Sam moans at the way to be filled up like this, Dean’s open mouth on his shoulder, teeth against his skin as he chokes on Sam’s name, his body wracked with the all-consuming pleasure only Sam can give him - somehow all at once sex, love, home, healing, resurrection and life, endless and absolute, whole.

Dean relaxes where he lays on Sam, their bodies burning hot and drenched in sweat, a mess of it pooling in the dips of Sam’s spine against Dean’s stomach. Dean nuzzles into his favourite hollow at Sam’s neck, tasting the salt on his lips and breathing in the overwhelming, comforting scent of them. He softens inside of Sam and neither of them make to move. Sam is wasted on his brother’s love, the paradise of his brother’s body, and he revels in the reassuring weight of Dean and the way their bodies stick together everywhere, their hearts and breaths slowing and finding the same rhythm, together in and out and in and out, sure and the same. They feel it painfully clear in these moments: their single soul, the way they exist wholly only with each other, two halves of the same being. Ever since they first came together, they've known it’s what gives them life, what keeps them alive. They keep each other human. They bring each other home.

Sam is blissed out and half asleep by the time he feels Dean slip out of him. Dean groans and kisses at Sam’s shoulder once more before rolling to the side. The sheets are wrecked under Sam and he’s starting to leak, Dean’s come trickling from his fucked-out hole, slow and a little tickling. Sam feels the chill instantly when Dean stands up, his skin pebbling up all over and he shivers.

Dean makes a small, knowing, apologetic sound and leans down to kiss quickly at the globe of Sam’s closest cheek. The musky scent of them makes his spent dick twitch valiantly with interest and he can’t resist that he palms open Sam’s ass to clean him out. He siphons back everything he gave his brother with sloppy sucks and kisses. Sam is writhing by the time he’s satisfied and he just has to kiss Sam’s mouth to let him taste himself on Dean’s tongue, the moans he makes at that like nothing else. He leaves Sam whimpering on the bed, winking at him as he finally pulls away to go for a cloth. Sam watches him walk away with eyes at half-mast and when Dean returns with the warm towel to clean them both up it wakes Sam up just enough that Dean can walk him over to the other bed to sleep.

Sam cuddles up against his brother’s body, his fists hidden in between them on Dean’s chest, and he lets Dean wrap his arms around him like he knew he would. They both breathe easy as they settle.

“Really thought I was going to lose you.” Sam finally whispers.

Dean pets at his hair, carding his hands through the sweat-damp strands.

“I know.” He answers, just as quiet. “But you didn’t. Still here, Sammy. Never gonna leave you.”

Dean punctuates that with a gentle squeeze that Sam has always found comforting.

“Never gonna leave you, Dean.” Sam echoes, consciousness slipping away from him. He can feel his brother’s smile where his lips are pressed to the top his head because he’s tucked up against him like he’s still actually the _smaller_ brother.

Dean always gives him everything he needs and after that fucked up case, that fucked up day, Dean made sure Sam could forget about the near-miss and just hold on to him, his flesh and blood and soul, his here for you now and always brother. Just the right thing, every time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are love ❤


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